CHAPTER VI

ROME (1859-1860)

THE tramp in Thuringen lasted four-and-twenty hours. By the end of the
first walk, his three companions- John Bancroft, James J. Higginson, and B. W. Crowninshield, all
Boston and Harvard College like himself- were satisfied with what they had seen, and when they
sat down to rest on the spot where Goethe had written-

“Warte nur! balde

Rubest du auch!”-

the profoundness of the thought and the wisdom of the advice affected them so strongly that they
hired a wagon and drove to Weimar the same night. They were all quite happy and lighthearted in
the first fresh breath of leafless spring, and the beer was better than at Berlin, but they were all
equally in doubt why they had come to Germany, and not one of them could say why they stayed.
Adams stayed because he did not want to go home, and he had fears that his father's patience
might be exhausted if he asked to waste time elsewhere.

They could not think that their
education required a return to Berlin. A few days at Dresden in the spring weather satisfied them
that Dresden was a better spot for general education than Berlin, and equally good for reading
Civil Law. They were possibly right. There was nothing to study in Dresden, and no education to
be gained, but the Sistine Madonna and the Correggios were famous; the theatre and opera were
sometimes excellent, and the Elbe was prettier than the Spree. They could always fall back on the
language. So he took a room in the household of the usual small government clerk with the usual
plain daughters, and continued the study of the language. Possibly one might learn something
more by accident, as one had learned something of

ROME 83

Beethoven. For the next eighteen months the young man pursued accidental education, since he
could pursue no other; and by great good fortune, Europe and America were too busy with their
own affairs to give much attention to his. Accidental education had every chance in its favor,
especially because nothing came amiss.

Perhaps the chief obstacle to the youth's education, now that he had come of age, was his
honesty; his simple-minded faith in his intentions. Even after Berlin had become a nightmare, he
still persuaded himself that his German education was a success. He loved, or thought he loved
the people, but the Germany he loved was the eighteenth-century which the Germans were
ashamed of, and were destroying as fast as they could. Of the Germany to come, he knew
nothing. Military Germany was his abhorrence. What he liked was the simple character; the
good-natured sentiment; the musical and metaphysical abstraction; the blundering incapacity of
the German for practical affairs. At that time everyone looked on Germany as incapable of
competing with France, England or America in any sort of organized energy. Germany had no
confidence in herself, and no reason to feel it. She had no unity, and no reason to want it. She
never had unity. Her religious and social history, her economical interests, her military geography,
her political convenience, had always tended to eccentric rather than concentric motion. Until
coal-power and railways were created, she was medieval by nature and geography, and this was
what Adams, under the teachings of Carlyle and Lowell, liked.

He was in a fair way to do
himself lasting harm, floundering between worlds passed and worlds coming, which had a habit of
crushing men who stayed too long at the points of contact. Suddenly the Emperor Napoleon
declared war on Austria and raised a confused point of morals in the mind of Europe. France was
the nightmare of Germany, and even at Dresden one looked on the return of Napoleon to Leipsic
as the most likely thing in the world. One morning the government clerk, in whose family Adams
was

84 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

staying, rushed into his room to consult a map in order that he might measure the distance from
Milan to Dresden. The third Napoleon had reached Lombardy, and only fifty or sixty years had
passed since the first Napoleon had begun his military successes from an Italian base.

An
enlightened young American, with eighteenth-century tastes capped by fragments of a German
education and the most excellent intentions, had to make up his mind about the moral value of
these conflicting forces. France was the wicked spirit of moral politics, and whatever helped
France must be so far evil. At that time Austria was another evil spirit. Italy was the prize they
disputed, and for at least fifteen hundred years had been the chief object of their greed. The
question of sympathy had disturbed a number of persons during that period. The question of
morals had been put in a number of cross-lights. Should one be Guelph or Ghibelline? No doubt,
one was wiser than one's neighbors who had found no way of settling this question since the days
of the cave-dwellers, but ignorance did better to discard the attempt to be wise, for wisdom had
been singularly baffled by the problem. Better take sides first, and reason about it for the rest of
life.

Not that Adams felt any real doubt about his sympathies or wishes. He had not been German long
enough for befogging his mind to that point, but the moment was decisive for much to come,
especially for political morals. His morals were the highest, and he clung to them to preserve his
self-respect; but steam and electricity had brought about new political and social concentrations,
or were making them necessary in the line of his moral principles--freedom, education, economic
development and so forth--which required association with allies as doubtful as Napoleon III, and
robberies with violence on a very extensive scale. As long as he could argue that his opponents
were wicked, he could join in robbing and killing them without a qualm; but it might happen that
the good were robbed. Education insisted

ROME 85

on finding a moral foundation for robbery. He could hope to begin life in the character of no
animal more moral than a monkey unless he could satisfy himself when and why robbery and
murder were a virtue and duty. Education founded on mere self-interest was merely Guelph and
Ghibelline over again- Machiavelli translated into American.

Luckily for him he had a sister
much brighter than he ever was--though he thought himself a rather superior person--who after
marrying Charles Kuhn, of Philadelphia, had come to Italy, and, like all good Americans and
English, was hotly Italian. In July, 1859, she was at Thun in Switzerland, and there Henry Adams
joined them. Women have, commonly, a very positive moral sense; that which they will, is right;
that which they reject, is wrong; and their will, in most cases, ends by settling the moral. Mrs.
Kuhn had a double superiority. She not only adored Italy, but she cordially disliked Germany in all
its varieties. She saw no gain in helping her brother to be Germanized, and she wanted him much
to be civilized. She was the first young woman he was ever intimate with--quick, sensitive, wilful,
or full of will, energetic, sympathetic and intelligent enough to supply a score of men with ideas--
and he was delighted to give her the reins--to let her drive him where she would. It was his first
experiment in giving the reins to a woman, and he was so much pleased with the results that he
never wanted to take them back. In after life he made a general law of experience--no woman had
ever driven him wrong; no man had ever driven him right.

Nothing would satisfy Mrs. Kuhn
but to go to the seat of war as soon as the armistice was declared. Wild as the idea seemed,
nothing was easier. The party crossed the St. Gothard and reached Milan, picturesque with every
sort of uniform and every sign of war. To young Adams this first plunge into Italy passed
Beethoven as a piece of accidental education. Like music, it differed from other education in
being, not a means of pursuing life, but one of the ends attained. Further, on these lines, one

86 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

could not go. It had but one defect--that of attainment. Life had no richer impression to give; it
offers barely half-a-dozen such, and the intervals seem long. Exactly what they teach would
puzzle a Berlin jurist; yet they seem to have an economic value, since most people would decline
to part with even their faded memories except at a valuation ridiculously extravagant. They were
also what men pay most for; but one's ideas become hopelessly mixed in trying to reduce such
forms of education to a standard of exchangeable value, and, as in political economy, one had best
disregard altogether what cannot be stated in equivalents. The proper equivalent of pleasure is
pain, which is also a form of education.

Not satisfied with Milan, Mrs. Kuhn insisted on invading the enemy's country, and the carriage
was chartered for Innsbruck by way of the Stelvio Pass. The Valtellina, as the carriage drove up
it, showed war. Garibaldi's Cacciatori were the only visible inhabitants. No one could say whether
the pass was open, but in any case no carriage had yet crossed. At the inns the handsome young
officers in command of the detachments were delighted to accept invitations to dinner and to talk
all the evening of their battles to the charming patriot who sparkled with interest and flattery, but
not one of them knew whether their enemies, the abhorred Austrian Jagers, would let the
travellers through their lines. As a rule, gaiety was not the character failing in any party that Mrs.
Kuhn belonged to, but when at last, after climbing what was said to be the finest carriage-pass in
Europe, the carriage turned the last shoulder, where the glacier of the Ortler Spitze tumbled its
huge mass down upon the road, even Mrs. Kuhn gasped when she was driven directly up to the
barricade and stopped by the double line of sentries stretching on either side up the mountains, till
the flash of the gun barrels was lost in the flash of the snow. For accidental education the picture
had its value. The earliest of these pictures count for most, as first impressions must, and Adams
never afterwards cared much for

ROME 87

landscape education, except perhaps in the tropics for the sake of the contrast. As education, that
chapter, too, was read, and set aside.

The handsome blond officers of the Jagers were not to be beaten in courtesy by the handsome
young olive-toned officers of the Cacciatori. The eternal woman as usual, when she is young,
pretty, and engaging, had her way, and the barricade offered no resistance. In fifteen minutes the
carriage was rolling down to Mals, swarming with German soldiers and German fleas, worse than
the Italian; and German language, thought, and atmosphere, of which young Adams, thanks to his
glimpse of Italy, never again felt quite the old confident charm.

Yet he could talk to his
cabman and conscientiously did his cathedrals, his Rhine, and whatever his companions suggested.
Faithful to his self-contracted scheme of passing two winters in study of the Civil Law, he went
back to Dresden with a letter to the Frau Hofrathin von Reichenbach, in whose house Lowell and
other Americans had pursued studies more or less serious. In those days, "The Initials" was a new
book. The charm which its clever author had laboriously woven over Munich gave also a certain
reflected light to Dresden. Young Adams had nothing to do but take fencing-lessons, visit the
galleries and go to the theatre; but his social failure in the line of "The Initials," was humiliating
and he succumbed to it. The Frau Hofrathin herself was sometimes roused to huge laughter at the
total discomfiture and helplessness of the young American in the face of her society. Possibly an
education may be the wider and the richer for a large experience of the world; Raphael Pumpelly
and Clarence King, at about the same time, were enriching their education by a picturesque
intimacy with the manners of the Apaches and Digger Indians. All experience is an arch, to build
upon. Yet Adams admitted himself unable to guess what use his second winter in Germany was to
him, or what he expected it to be. Even the doctrine of accidental education broke down. There
were no

88 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

accidents in Dresden. As soon as the winter was over, he closed and locked the German door with
a long breath of relief, and took the road to Italy. He had then pursued his education, as it pleased
him, for eighteen months, and in spite of the infinite variety of new impressions which had packed
themselves into his mind, he knew no more, for his practical purposes, than the day he graduated.
He had made no step towards a profession. He was as ignorant as a schoolboy of society. He was
unfit for any career in Europe, and unfitted for any career in America, and he had not natural
intelligence enough to see what a mess he had thus far made of his education.

By twisting life
to follow accidental and devious paths, one might perhaps find some use for accidental and
devious knowledge, but this had been no part of Henry Adams's plan when he chose the path most
admired by the best judges, and followed it till he found it led nowhere. Nothing had been further
from his mind when he started in November, 1858, than to become a tourist, but a mere tourist,
and nothing else, he had become in April, 1860, when he joined his sister in Florence. His father
had been in the right. The young man felt a little sore about it. Supposing his father asked him, on
his return, what equivalent he had brought back for the time and money put into his experiment!
The only possible answer would be: "Sir, I am a tourist! "

The answer was not what he had meant it to be, and he was not likely to better it by asking his
father, in turn, what equivalent his brothers or cousins or friends at home had got out of the same
time and money spent in Boston. All they had put into the law was certainly thrown away, but
were they happier in science? In theory one might say, with some show of proof, that a pure,
scientific education was alone correct; yet many of his friends who took it, found reason to
complain that it was anything but a pure, scientific world in which they lived.

Meanwhile his
father had quite enough perplexities of his own, without seeking more in his son's errors. His
Quincy district had

ROME 89

sent him to Congress, and in the spring of 1860 he was in the full confusion of nominating
candidates for the Presidential election in November. He supported Mr. Seward. The Republican
Party was an unknown force, and the Democratic Party was torn to pieces. No one could see far
into the future. Fathers could blunder as well as sons, and, in 1860, every one was conscious of
being dragged along paths much less secure than those of the European tourist. For the time, the
young man was safe from interference, and went on his way with a light heart to take whatever
chance fragments of education God or the devil was pleased to give him, for he knew no longer
the good from the bad.

He had of both sorts more than he knew how to use. Perhaps the most useful purpose he set
himself to serve was that of his pen, for he wrote long letters, during the next three months, to his
brother Charles, which his brother caused to be printed in the Boston Courier; and the
exercise was good for him. He had little to say, and said it not very well, but that mattered less.
The habit of expression leads to the search for something to express. Something remains as a
residuum of the commonplace itself, if one strikes out every commonplace in the expression.
Young men as a rule saw little in Italy, or anywhere else, and in after life when Adams began to
learn what some men could see, he shrank into corners of shame at the thought that he should
have betrayed his own inferiority as though it were his pride, while he invited his neighbors to
measure and admire; but it was still the nearest approach he had yet made to an intelligent act.

For the rest, Italy was mostly an emotion and the emotion naturally centred in Rome. The
American parent, curiously enough, while bitterly hostile to Paris, seemed rather disposed to
accept Rome as legitimate education, though abused; but to young men seeking education in a
serious spirit, taking for granted that everything had a cause, and that nature tended to an end,
Rome was altogether the most violent vice in the world, and Rome before 1870 was seductive
beyond resistance. The month of May,

90 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

1860, was divine. No doubt other young men, and occasionally young women, have passed the
month of May in Rome since then, and conceive that the charm continues to exist. Possibly it
does- in them- but in 1860 the lights and shadows were still medieval, and medieval Rome was
alive; the shadows breathed and glowed, full of soft forms felt by lost senses. No sand-blast of
science had yet skinned off the epidermis of history, thought, and feeling. The pictures were
uncleaned, the churches unrestored, the ruins unexcavated. Medieval Rome was sorcery. Rome
was the worst spot on earth to teach nineteenth-century youth what to do with a
twentieth-century world. One's emotions in Rome were one's private affair, like one's glass of
absinthe before dinner in the Palais Royal; they must be hurtful, else they could not have been so
intense; and they were surely immoral, for no one, priest or politician, could honestly read in the
ruins of Rome any other certain lesson than that they were evidence of the just judgments of an
outraged God against all the doings of man. This moral unfitted young men for every sort of
useful activity; it made Rome a gospel of anarchy and vice; the last place under the sun for
educating the young; yet it was, by common consent, the only spot that the young--of either sex
and every race--passionately, perversely, wickedly loved.

Boys never see a conclusion; only
on the edge of the grave can man conclude anything; but the first impulse given to the boy is apt
to lead or drive him for the rest of his life into conclusion after conclusion that he never dreamed
of reaching. One looked idly enough at the Forum or at St. Peter's, but one never forgot the look,
and it never ceased reacting. To a young Bostonian, fresh from Germany, Rome seemed a pure
emotion, quite free from economic or actual values, and he could not in reason or common sense
foresee that it was mechanically piling up conundrum after conundrum in his educational path,
which seemed unconnected but that he had got to connect; that seemed insoluble but had got to
be somehow solved. Rome was not a beetle

ROME 91

to be dissected and dropped; not a bad French novel to be read in a railway train and thrown out
of the window after other bad French novels, the morals of which could never approach the
immorality of Roman history. Rome was actual; it was England; it was going to be America.
Rome could not be fitted into an orderly, middle-class, Bostonian, systematic scheme of
evolution. No law of progress applied to it. Not even time-sequences--the last refuge of helpless
historians--had value for it. The Forum no more led to the Vatican than the Vatican to the Forum.
Rienzi, Garibaldi, Tiberius Gracchus, Aurelian might be mixed up in any relation of time, along
with a thousand more, and never lead to a sequence. The great word Evolution had not yet, in
1860, made a new religion of history, but the old religion had preached the same doctrine for a
thousand years without finding in the entire history of Rome anything but flat contradiction.

Of course both priests and evolutionists bitterly denied this heresy, but what they affirmed or
denied in 1860 had very little importance indeed for 1960. Anarchy lost no ground meanwhile.
The problem became only the more fascinating. Probably it was more vital in May, 1860, than it
had been in October, 1764, when the idea of writing the Decline and Fall of the city first started to
the mind of Gibbon, "in the close of the evening, as I sat musing in the Church of the Zoccolanti
or Franciscan Friars, while they were singing Vespers in the Temple of Jupiter, on the ruins of the
Capitol." Murray's Handbook had the grace to quote this passage from Gibbon's
"Autobiography," which led Adams more than once to sit at sunset on the steps of the Church of
Santa Maria di Ara Coeli, curiously wondering that not an inch had been gained by Gibbon- or all
the historians since- towards explaining the Fall. The mystery remained unsolved; the charm
remained intact. Two great experiments of Western civilization had left there the chief monuments
of their failure, and nothing proved that the city might not still survive to express the failure of a
third.

92 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

The young man had no idea what he was doing. The thought of posing for a Gibbon never entered
his mind. He was a tourist, even to the depths of his sub-consciousness, and it was well for him
that he should be nothing else, for even the greatest of men cannot sit with dignity, "in the close of
evening, among the ruins of the Capitol," unless they have something quite original to say about
it. Tacitus could do it; so could Michael Angelo; and so, at a pinch, could Gibbon, though in
figure hardly heroic; but, in sum, none of them could say very much more than the tourist, who
went on repeating to himself the eternal question: -Why! Why!! Why!!!- as his neighbor, the blind
beggar, might do, sitting next him, on the church steps. No one ever had answered the question to
the satisfaction of any one else; yet every one who had either head or heart, felt that sooner or
later he must make up his mind what answer to accept. Substitute the word America for the word
Rome, and the question became personal.

Perhaps Henry learned something in Rome, though he never knew it, and never sought it. Rome
dwarfs teachers. The greatest men of the age scarcely bore the test of posing with Rome for a
background. Perhaps Garibaldi- possibly even Cavour- could have sat "in the close of the evening,
among the ruins of the Capitol," but one hardly saw Napoleon III there, or Palmerston or
Tennyson or Longfellow. One morning, Adams happened to be chatting in the studio of Hamilton
Wilde, when a middle-aged Englishman came in, evidently excited, and told of the shock he had
just received, when riding near the Circus Maximus, at coming unexpectedly on the guillotine,
where some criminal had been put to death an hour or two before. The sudden surprise had quite
overcome him; and Adams, who seldom saw the point of a story till time had blunted it, listened
sympathetically to learn what new form of grim horror had for the moment wiped out the memory
of two thousand years of Roman bloodshed, or the consolation, derived from history and
statistics, that most citizens of Rome seemed to be the better for guillotining. Only by slow

ROME 93

degrees, he grappled the conviction that the victim of the shock was Robert Browning; and, on
the background of the Circus Maximus, the Christian martyrs flaming as torches, and the
morning's murderer on the block, Browning seemed rather in place, as a middle-aged gentlemanly
English Pippa Passes; while afterwards, in the light of Belgravia dinner-tables, he never made part
of his background except by effacement. Browning might have sat with Gibbon, among the ruins,
and few Romans would have smiled.

Yet Browning never revealed the poetic depths of Saint Francis; William Story could not touch
the secret of Michael Angelo, and Mommsen hardly said all that one felt by instinct in the lives of
Cicero and Caesar. They taught what, as a rule, needed no teaching, the lessons of a rather cheap
imagination and cheaper politics. Rome was a bewildering complex of ideas, experiments,
ambitions, energies; without her, the Western world was pointless and fragmentary; she gave
heart and unity to it all; yet Gibbon might have gone on for the whole century, sitting among the
ruins of the Capitol, and no one would have passed, capable of telling him what it meant. Perhaps
it meant nothing.

So it ended; the happiest month of May that life had yet offered, fading behind the present, and
probably beyond the past, somewhere into abstract time, grotesquely out of place with the Berlin
scheme or a Boston future. Adams explained to himself that he was absorbing knowledge. He
would have put it better had he said that knowledge was absorbing him. He was passive. In spite
of swarming impressions he knew no more when he left Rome than he did when he entered it. As
a marketable object, his value was less. His next step went far to convince him that accidental
education, whatever its economical return might be, was prodigiously successful as an object in
itself. Everything conspired to ruin his sound scheme of life, and to make him a vagrant as well as
pauper. He went on to Naples, and there, in the hot June, heard rumors that Garibaldi and his
thousand were about

94 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

to attack Palermo. Calling on the American Minister, Chandler of Pennsylvania, he was kindly
treated, not for his merit, but for his name, and Mr. Chandler amiably consented to send him to
the seat of war as bearer of despatches to Captain Palmer of the American sloop of war Iroquois.
Young Adams seized the chance, and went to Palermo in a government transport filled with fleas,
commanded by a charming Prince Caracciolo.

He told all about it to the Boston Courier; where the narrative probably exists to this day,
unless the files of the Courier have wholly perished; but of its bearing on education the
Courier did not speak. He himself would have much liked to know whether it had any
bearing whatever, and what was its value as a post-graduate course. Quite apart from its value as
life attained, realized, capitalized, it had also a certain value as a lesson in something, though
Adams could never classify the branch of study. Loosely, the tourist called it knowledge of men,
but it was just the reverse; it was knowledge of one's ignorance of men. Captain Palmer of the
Iroquois, who was a friend of the young man's uncle, Sydney Brooks, took him with the officers
of the ship to make an evening call on Garibaldi, whom they found in the Senate House towards
sunset, at supper with his picturesque and piratic staff, in the full noise and color of the Palermo
revolution. As a spectacle, it belonged to Rossini and the Italian opera, or to Alexandre Dumas at
the least, but the spectacle was not its educational side. Garibaldi left the table, and, sitting down
at the window, had a few words of talk with Captain Palmer and young Adams. At that moment,
in the summer of 1860, Garibaldi was certainly the most serious of the doubtful energies in the
world; the most essential to gauge rightly. Even then society was dividing between banker and
anarchist. One or the other, Garibaldi must serve. Himself a typical anarchist, sure to overshadow
Europe and alarm empires bigger than Naples, his success depended on his mind; his energy was
beyond doubt.

Adams had the chance to look this sphinx in the eyes, and,

ROME 95

for five minutes, to watch him like a wild animal, at the moment of his greatest achievement and
most splendid action. One saw a quiet-featured, quiet-voiced man in a red flannel shirt; absolutely
impervious; a type of which Adams knew nothing. Sympathetic it was, and one felt that it was
simple; one suspected even that it might be childlike, but could form no guess of its intelligence.
In his own eyes Garibaldi might be a Napoleon or a Spartacus; in the hands of Cavour he might
become a Condottiere; in the eyes of history he might, like the rest of the world, be only the
vigorous player in the game he did not understand. The student was none the wiser.

This
compound nature of patriot and pirate had illumined Italian history from the beginning, and was
no more intelligible to itself than to a young American who had no experience in double natures.
In the end, if the "Autobiography" tells truth, Garibaldi saw and said that he had not understood
his own acts; that he had been an instrument; that he had served the purposes of the class he least
wanted to help; yet in 1860 he thought himself the revolution anarchic, Napoleonic, and his
ambition was unbounded. What should a young Bostonian have made of a character like this,
internally alive with childlike fancies, and externally quiet, simple, almost innocent; uttering with
apparent conviction the usual commonplaces of popular politics that all politicians use as the small
change of their intercourse with the public; but never betraying a thought?

Precisely this class
of mind was to be the toughest problem of Adams's practical life, but he could never make
anything of it. The lesson of Garibaldi, as education, seemed to teach the extreme complexity of
extreme simplicity; but one could have learned this from a glow-worm. One did not need the vivid
recollection of the low-voiced, simple-mannered, seafaring captain of Genoese adventurers and
Sicilian brigands, supping in the July heat and Sicilian dirt and revolutionary clamor, among the
barricaded streets of insurgent Palermo, merely in order to remember that simplicity is complex.

96 THE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS

Adams left the problem as he found it, and came north to stumble over others, less picturesque
but nearer. He squandered two or three months on Paris. From the first he had avoided Paris, and
had wanted no French influence in his education. He disapproved of France in the lump. A certain
knowledge of the language one must have; enough to order dinner and buy a theatre ticket; but
more he did not seek. He disliked the Empire and the Emperor particularly, but this was a trifle;
he disliked most the French mind. To save himself the trouble of drawing up a long list of all that
he disliked, he disapproved of the whole, once for all, and shut them figuratively out of his life.
France was not serious, and he was not serious in going there.

He did this in good faith,
obeying the lessons his teachers had taught him; but the curious result followed that, being in no
way responsible for the French and sincerely disapproving them, he felt quite at liberty to enjoy to
the full everything he disapproved. Stated thus crudely, the idea sounds derisive; but, as a matter
of fact, several thousand Americans passed much of their time there on this understanding. They
sought to take share in every function that was open to approach, as they sought tickets to the
opera, because they were not a part of it. Adams did like the rest. All thought of serious education
had long vanished. He tried to acquire a few French idioms, without even aspiring to master a
subjunctive, but he succeeded better in acquiring a modest taste for Bordeaux and Burgundy and
one or two sauces; for the Trois Freres Provencaux and Voisin's and Philippe's and the Cafe
Anglais; for the Palais Royal Theatre, and the Varietes and the Gymnase; for the Brohans and
Bressant, Rose Cheri and Gil Perez, and other lights of the stage. His friends were good to him.
Life was amusing. Paris rapidly became familiar. In a month or six weeks he forgot even to
disapprove of it; but he studied nothing, entered no society, and made no acquaintance.
Accidenta1 education went far in Paris, and one picked up a deal of knowledge that might become
useful--perhaps, after all, the three months

ROME 97

passed there might serve better purpose than the twenty-one months passed elsewhere; but he did
not intend it--did not think it--and looked at it as a momentary and frivolous vacation before
going home to fit himself for life. Therewith, after staying as long as he could and spending all the
money he dared, he started with mixed emotions but no education, for home.